Donating Blood, and other Mowing Hazards

Why did I think I wanted to mow the yard?

First of all, "yard" is really stretching the meaning of the word when it comes to my property. It's mostly straw with strands of green poking through it. But there is one area of the North 40 that was getting pretty wild. I probably should have had someone come in to slash it down for hay.

But there was something intoxicating about having a mower. I actually spent two weeks thinking about what I wanted in a mower. It wasn't until my first 5 minutes of walking behind my new shiny self-propelled red mechanical menace that I probably should have gotten something I could RIDE on. DUH. Whatever.

Now, exercise really isn't in my vocabulary. So after 10 minutes, I'm sweating in a way that might unduly compare me to a Richard Simmons work out video and noticing that I'm gushing blood out of my arm. Apparently a mosquito the size of a VW Bug didn't get the memo that gay men aren't supposed to donate blood.

So on I went, trying to keep my new 7 horsepower walker moving in the right direction when I run over the reminants of a black plastic sheet. The noise was atrocious, but nothing compared to the results - a squirming green and tan snake letting me know how annoyed it was to my ripping up his perfectly nice home. Suddenly, I'm dancing around in a blind panic screaming like a red-headed school girl. Yeah - THAT's an image sure to invoke machismo with the neighbors.

Time to call up a lawn service...